


The Struggles of Eight

by imagenande (animeg)



Category: I Am Number Four (2011), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Crossover, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:56:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3416687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animeg/pseuds/imagenande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it all felt like too much— constantly living in fear of being hunted just for who he was, the pressure to be good enough, to train hard enough so that when they did face the Modadorians, he’d be able to put up a fight. He didn’t want to die; he wanted to live, to be able to have a normal life, to protect the things he cared for— Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am a huge fan of the Merlin fandom. I have read a ton of fics but I've never tried writing one before so I thought maybe I'd try my hand at it.  
> I'd read this Merlin x I am Number Four crossover fic a long time ago- ["Little Help?" by grave-walker](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6926911/1/Little-Help)\- and absolutely loved the idea of the Number Eight!Merlin universe.  
> Anyways, here's my go at it. I wrote this so it can be read in conjunction with "Little Help?" or as a stand alone.  
> Sorry if I butcher the original I am Number Four story and if my writing is atrocious. 
> 
> I plan to post a bunch of chapters but this will probably be a bunch of plot what plot instead of properly structured... Please bear with me while I get them out.  
> Thanks ><

 

Eight sighed and rolled on to his other side trying to fall asleep but failing. His eyes absently traced his sparse bedroom. The moon was full and bright tonight lighting up the room enough to make out the bare dresser, the lamp in the corner.

All his life, he had been forced to move from place to place, never staying in one location too long to keep from being tracked by the Mogadorians— an alien race out to kill him. Thus, he’d never really considered any of the places he’d stayed in a home; it was never _his_ bedroom, just another temporary room in a temporary house until they moved on to the next. Suffice it to say, he didn’t have many possessions; they had to travel light, to be able to pick up leave at any hint that they might have been found.

Eight fiddled with the pendant around his neck, his thumb tracing over the familiar symbol, a habit of his when he was deep in thought. It had been given to him when he was born— one of the only things he had taken with him from his home world— a symbol of his people, it was also a Loric charm. The charm was one of nine, containing a power that would protect the wearer. Each representing a number, the only way that the owner could be killed, was if the preceding charms had been destroyed first.

Like the charms, Eight was one of nine children born with special powers. Together they were named the Garde and they were intended to fight the Mogadorians and protect their people. However, they had been born too late— hadn’t had time to grow and mature into their powers. When the Mogs had attacked their home planet, a four year old Eight had been entrusted to Arthur— one of the warriors chosen to protect the Garde. They had fled with the remainder of the nine and their cepans to Earth, to hide until they were ready.

Arthur was Eight’s guardian, his cepan in their language, his sole purpose: to care for and protect Eight at all costs. Growing up, Arthur had been the only consistent in Eight’s life, not only his guardian, but his best friend— especially since Eight didn’t really have any other friends. He had attended various schools and occasionally become friendly with other students, but he never stayed anywhere long enough to become very close and couldn’t keep in contact, it being too dangerous.

Eight rolled onto his back and pressed his palms into his eyes. Sometimes it all felt like too much— constantly living in fear of being hunted just for who he was, the pressure to be good enough, to train hard enough so that when they did face the Modadorians, he’d be able to put up a fight. He didn’t want to die; he wanted to live, to be able to have a normal life, to protect the things he cared for— Arthur.

At the thought of Arthur his face crumpled and he felt the prickle of tears threaten eyes. What was he going to do about Arthur? Over the last week they hadn’t spoken much, only about menial things, carefully avoiding what had happened. Were they going to be like this from now on— awkwardly interacting trying to pretend nothing was different— all the while, Arthur giving him pitying looks?

Eight was in love with Arthur. Arthur had been the youngest cepan chosen at only eighteen of Earth’s years. He had been the top of his class and one of the most skilled fighters, thus his being chosen to protect the nine. To Eight, growing up, Arthur had been his world. He had looked up to Arthur like a flower to the sun, like Arthur had hung the moon and the stars.

But then, at some point, he had started to develop _other_ feelings as well. He had made sure to hide these feelings, knowing that Arthur would never return them and accepted that this would be it for him; their kind only fell in love once and it was permanent. But it wasn’t so bad, loving Arthur, in secret, as long as he could be by his side, always—

…at least that is what he had convinced himself, until he had gone and messed everything up.

They had been sparing as usual when Arthur had caught Eight in a hold— from behind. And Eight had— well he had _reacted…_ and then he hadn’t been able to make it go away on his own and Arthur had to help him and he was still mortified by the whole thing.

 _In some messed up way, I guess I owe it to the Mogs for keeping Arthur and me together,_ he thought. It was hard to imagine a life after the Mogs, what with this being all he had ever known, but it was even harder to imagine a life after Arthur. Whenever Eight tried to imagine being away from Arthur, his heart clenched, his whole being fighting against the idea.

If, by some miracle, they did defeat the Mogs, would Arthur go his separate way? Maybe now that Arthur knew about his feelings, it would make him too uncomfortable to be around Eight. The thought made Eight sick to his stomach. Luckily, they probably wouldn’t be defeating the Mogs any time soon so he didn’t have to worry about this yet.

Just then, the bedroom door opened; Arthur quickly crossed the room, pressed his back against the wall, sidling up to the window and peering out. Without breaking his gaze he spoke in a hushed voice. “Eight, get up.”

“What is it? Is it—” Eight asked sitting up in alarm and pushing off the covers.

“Something’s not—“Arthur cut off, his eyes darting to something down on the ground.

“It’s them” Arthur said, turning to Eight with a determined expression.

“WHAT!?” Eight asked in a panicked voice.

Arthur stepped over to him, grabbing his shoulders with both hands. “You have to go. Go out the back window, into the forest. You run and you don’t stop for anything, got it? Make sure you lose them then head towards the shed.”

“What about you?” Eight asked. He was really starting to panic now. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll grab the stuff and I’ll be right behind you.” He said turning Eight and pushing him through the bedroom door.

Eight knew it was best to follow Arthur’s orders. Unlike Eight, Arthur kept level-headed in emergencies, determining the best course of action and executing it while Eight was more likely to panic. Arthur could take care of himself; Eight had still not reached his skill level when they sparred; Plus, it would be Eight the Mogs were after.

His bare feet thumped against the floor as he raced down the hall into Arthur’s bedroom. He was only wearing a pair of pajama pants he slept in. He didn’t have time to grab his shoes— he didn’t need them, he’d be faster without them, he decided and slid the window open.

Slipping out onto the back roof, he ducked low and crept quietly to the edge. He scanned the backyard for any movement.

The Mogadorians were an invasive species. Having used up all of the resources on their own planet and converting it into a barren wasteland, they travelled to other worlds, stripping those as well, decimating all in their path. The Lorians— the inhabitant’s of Eight’s planet— had found a way to stop the Mogadorians and created the Garde— the only beings with enough power to threaten the Mogadorians— which is why they were being hunted, to make sure they never became a threat.

Deciding the coast was clear, Eight leapt from the roof, landing neatly on the ground. As soon as his feet touched the grass, he was off sprinting into the woods.

Twigs and branches wiped passed his face as he ran, but he ignored them concentrating on listening for any pursuers. He sprinted as fast as he could, his lungs burning and heart hammering in his chest, but he didn’t dare slow down. He had trained for this, Arthur putting him through grueling exercises to maximize his sped and stamina.

Though Eight looked like any normal eighteen year old, he was a lot stronger and faster, with a strength multiple times any normal human's. Ever since he had come into his first legacy— at around sixteen— he had found his strength slowly increasing all the time, though he had yet to surpass Arthur, a fact that Arthur taunted him for endlessly.

Suddenly, he heard the sounds of one— no, two Mogs racing through the trees towards him. They were a ways back but hot in pursuit, their jeering and laughter cutting through the constant sound of his panting breath and the crunch of leaves under his feet.

 _Concentrate! Concentrate! Don’t slip, don’t fall!_ He tried not to let the panic overwhelm him. He had never faced a Mog before but Arthur had told him enough stories about them. Ruthless and sadistic, they took pleasure in killing and destroying. While the Loriens matched them in physical strength, the Mogs had greater technology and weapons. Eight wasn’t sure how he would fair against them at his current skill level but he wasn’t willing to get close enough to find out. He knew if he made one wrong move they would be on him. He couldn’t fail.

He had just leapt over a fallen log when a blast hit the tree next to him sending a shower of bark into the side of his face. Instinctively, he threw his arms up and turned his face away avoiding most of the debris. _Shit!_ A few more blasts zipped passed him as he ran. _Shit shit shit!_ He dodged and weaved in-between the trees to keep from being an easy target.

His lungs were on fire; sweat dripping down his forehead into his eyes. He tried to blink to clear his vision— he couldn’t stop for anything. He saw a dark shape move out from behind the tree just ahead but he was too late to avoid it; it collided with him tackling him to the ground.   

Eight hit the ground hard, his shoulder taking the brunt of his weight, he flipped over before skidding to a halt. Disoriented from the fall, he struggled to get up.

When they had hit the ground, his attacker had been knocked aside and was now casting around for— the gun! Eight leapt up, sprinting over he snatched up the blaster where it had fallen. He spun around, aimed it at the Mog and pressed the trigger— pain lanced through his arms as the gun’s safety trap kicked in sending a burst of energy spamming through his body. He cried out as he collapsed to the ground.

Distantly, he could hear the deep sadistic laugh of the Mogadorians above him as his body convulsed on the ground. He tried to focus, to get his body under control. He dug his fingers into the ground to try and steady himself. He had to get away; they were going to kill him if he didn’t— his head was yanked up by his hair. The Mog pressed it’s ugly face in close to Eight’s and sneered. It’s head was bald and covered in tattoo like markings, it’s face similar to a humans except for the gill-like slits on either side of its nose and a mouth full of razor sharp teeth—“Too easy” it mocked in its deep nasally voice.

The other two, having caught up now, laughed behind him as he continued. “This one wasn’t much fun at all. Barely even put up a good chase.” It reached down, seizing the pendant he wore around his neck; “Lucky for you, your number’s not up—” it said, it’s horrible breath burning Eight’s nose. “… yet” It turned to the other reaching for something. “For now, let’s play a little game” it said with a dark smile, placing a rope over Eight’s head.

Eight only had a split second to think _NO_! before he was hoisted up into the air by his neck. He’d managed to get his right hand inside the loop before it had tightened, keeping it from chocking him fully but trapping it there. He struggled with his other hand to grab the rope and relieve some of the pressure— it was no use, he couldn’t get a hold.

He kicked out with his legs, struggling as he spun suspended in the air. The rope was too tight; he tried to suck in air, his blood increasing the pressure in his head, his eyes watering.

Eight was frantic, his mind racing, trying to remember some part of Arthur’s training to get him out of this; He could use his legacies he thought; but he hadn’t learned how to control them yet—

Legacies were the special powers laying dormant inside the nine. Arthur had told him as he matured, the legacies would start to manifest themselves, but that was all the information he had been given, as no one had had such power before.

When he was sixteen, he had been sitting around watching some TV when suddenly he felt a rush of power surge through him. It like it had come from deep inside him traveling down his arms to his hands shooting out— and the next thing he knew, the drapes were on fire.   

He tried to reach for that power now, to remember how it had felt. He could feel it, it was there, but every time he tried to push it out, it slipped away like trying to grasp smoke. He couldn’t— if he could just calm down enough to think—

He felt something hit him, a piercing pain stabbing into his lower back tearing a choked scream from his lips. The Mogs laughed as he struggled in vain— nothing but a toy for target practice.

His body screamed at the intrusion, he grasped blindly behind him, needing to pull it out. Black spots danced in front of his eyes, his motor skills becoming sluggish and disoriented. He was starting to lose consciousness; If he did, it would be all over. He couldn’t— he was so scared.

 _Please no, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die._ He cried in his head. He was panicking now. It was hopeless, even if his charm protected him, they would take him and they would torture him until they could kill him, just like they had killed One, Two and Three. And Arthur— Arthur would—

 _No please_ he sobbed. _Please…_  

Distantly, Eight heard a thunk. Cracking his eye open, he saw one of the Mogadorians slump to the ground before disintegrating into nothing, the other two turning to the source of the attack only to be hit by blaster shots.

Eight had a second to be confused before the rope snapped, dropping him the ground. He gasped for air, scrabbling at his neck as the pressure of the rope released, his body breaking into a coughing fit at the use of his abused throat. He noticed someone above him, helping detangle him— _Arthur!_

 _Oh, thank god, Arthur…_ He reached for Arthur; his salvation where a moment ago he had lost hope. Burying his face in Arthur’s chest, he sobbed pitifully, Arthur trying to calm him. “Shh, I’ve got you”

They were not out of danger yet. Without wasting time, Arthur lifted him into a fireman carry and took off at a jog through the woods. Each step Arthur took, jostled Eight, the knife still embedded in his back causing pain to shoot through him. He knew it was better not to remove it, to keep him from bleeding out, but the pain was unbearable and he couldn’t help the cries that were torn from his throat.

He clung to Arthur, silently begging him to protect him, to make this all go away, like he always did— ARTHUR!— His world exploded and spun before crashing into him and going black.

His senses returned to him slowly; dirt— he could smell the dirt where he was lying on the ground. He could hear the sounds of a fight going on near by, but there was a high pitch ringing on one side of his head, obscuring most of it. His face was warm and wet. He tried to open his eyes but he couldn’t— or they were open but all he could see was black— _the ground?_

MERLIN!— MERLIN!! He heard his name being called— the one his parents had given him, but only Arthur ever used— it sounded far away, but then he was being turned over, Arthur’s face coming into view, his expression terrified. Eight tried to talk, to tell Arthur he was alright, but only managed a sob— It was enough; relief flooded Arthur’s face as he pulled Eight close. Cradling him, he put one arm around his back and the other under his legs before lifting him into the air.

Eight thought he blacked out for periods but it still felt like an eternity before they reached the shed where they had an emergency truck hidden. Arthur laid Eight carefully on the back seat, and placed a blanket over him before climbing into the front and starting the truck. The hum of the engine and the motion of the car providing a sense of security, Eight finally succumbed to the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Eight woke slowly to the pitter patter of rain on the window and the dull, grey light of the overcast sky. He had a second to think _where—?_ before the night’s events came flooding back bringing with them the fear and panic. Suddenly sick to his stomach, he threw his head over the side of the bed to retch on the floor. Thankfully, he hadn’t had anything in his stomach to come up so he only managed a few dry heaves.

Dragging himself back up, he lay his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, trying to take deep breaths. When he felt steady enough, he cracked his eyes open and took in his surroundings. He was in a strange bed in a strange room— a basic motel from the looks of it. He didn’t remember how he’d got there or much of what had happened after he and Arthur had reached the truck. He had a few vague memories— pain and Arthur’s soothing words, feeling too hot, like he was burning up from the inside, and then Arthur cooling him with a wet towel.

He moved hesitantly, stretching each muscle, testing for any pain but found none. He reached for his back, pressing his fingers where he remembered the knife had sliced through skin and muscle, but only found a dull ache. He found that strange and a bit frightening; _how long had he been asleep?_

Propping himself up with his elbows, he pushed himself into a sit. He tucked his knees up and wrapped his arms around them; one hand coming up to rub his face.

He tried not to think about what had happened, how the Mogs had chased him and caught him so easily, how he had been scared and useless and hadn’t managed to put up a fight at all. If it hadn’t have been for Arthur—

Tears pooled at corners of his eyes as despair overtook him. All Arthur’s training had been for nothing. He felt pathetic. He was supposed to be able to fight them but he hadn’t even been able to run away. Now he couldn’t even _think_ about them without bringing about a paralyzing fear— an image of them, tall, dark, laughing with their deep voices and smiling with their pointed teeth, still haunting his memory.

What good was he? Were the others as useless as him? If so, was all of this for nothing? Were they just holding off the inevitable until one by one the Mogs killed them all off?

“You’re up.” Arthur said from the doorway, startling Eight from his thoughts. He lifted his head from where he had been holding it in his hands. Arthur was standing there in a white tee and grey sweats— his expression, one of relief and concern. On seeing Arthur, the dam of emotion he had been trying to hold, broke through.

After everything— being so afraid, almost dying, thinking _this could be it_ , _he may never see Arthur again_ — he couldn’t help it as a quiet sob escaped his lips. He turned his face down as tears welled up and spilled over onto his cheeks.

Suddenly, Arthur was there, pulling him into a hug, cradling his head and pressing his face into Arthur’s shoulder. He wrapped his arms around Arthur’s back and clung to him as he continued to cry.

“I— I’m— sorry” He managed to say between loud sobs that shook his body.

“No, don’t you dare!” Arthur exclaimed. “This wasn’t your fault, you didn’t ask for any of this.” He tightened his hold, crushing Eight to him.

Eight continued to sob, “I was stupid, I knew— “ he sucked in a breath, “ I knew I shouldn’t have grabbed the gun— I was scared— and I—”

“Shh” Arthur soothed as he rocked him back and forth. “You did your best. We’re alright. Everything’s going to be alright.”

Eight had been ten years old when the Mogs had caught up with One. When they killed him, Eight had felt it— One’s last moment, his fear, his pain— just before a scar had formed on Eight’s leg,  burning into his skin, hot like a brand. It had been in the shape of One’s symbol, the first piece of the charm broken. Arthur had held him then, the same as he was doing now, until he had cried himself out. Arthur was always there for him, calming his fears, and soothing his aches. 

After a period of time, Eight’s crying finally calmed down. He wiped his face as he continued to sniff. Avoiding Arthur’s eyes, he stared at the comforter, suddenly embarrassed at his display of emotion.

 

“Hungry?” Arthur asked quietly. Eight shook his head; He didn’t feel like eating.

“How long was I out?” Eight asked, fighting to return his voice to normal.

“Just over two days” Arthur answered.

“But how—?” He asked, shocked by Arthur’s answer.

“I’m not sure. I drove for a while to make sure they weren’t following us. You were out cold, so I found a place to stop for the night. I was in the middle of patching you up when I think one of your legacies kicked in— your eyes were open and glowing bright gold, but it didn’t seem like you were awake— then your body flared up, as if you were in a blazing fire, and then it died down and you were healed.”

“Pfft, so they won’t work in the middle of a fight, but I can accidentally use them in my sleep… real great.” Eight said, trying to make light of the moment.

“I was a bit worried you were going to be missing an ear.” Arthur returned lightly as he ran a few fingers through Eights hair, pushing it out of the way to examine the newly grown skin. “But it looks like it came back fine.”

Eight snorted at the comment. “Wouldn’t have been much of a loss.” He said darkly. His ears had always stuck out a bit much and he’d kept his hair shaggy to cover them.

“Hey! I like your ears.” Arthur said, running his finger and thumb around the shell, the intimacy of the gesture making Eight’s heart pick up pace. 

He tilted his head pulling out of Arthur’s reach. “Quit it” He said in mock annoyance— his usual defense whenever things got a little too close for comfort— not that he didn’t want to be touched by Arthur— quite the contrary, he longed for Arthur’s hands on his skin, to get lost in his touch, but Arthur wouldn’t want that—

Sometimes he entertained fantasies, late at night, in the quiet of his room, when the yearning was especially bad— though he would never admit this to Arthur, Ever. He’d pretend that his pillow was Arthur, laying next to him— and then maybe Arthur would reach over, his hand slipping around the nape of Eight’s neck to pull him close, his face tilted _just so_ , so their noses wouldn’t bump and press their lips together— Arthur’s mouth moving to coax Eight’s lips apart— and then he would stop that train of thought right there, feeling embarrassed and guilty. What was he doing thinking of Arthur that way?

Arthur had always warned him about falling in love— to avoid it at all costs. He would tell Eight stories about people who had lost the will to live after losing their lover. He’d said once that, for them, love was so much stronger than human love, that it was like finding out you were two parts of the same whole, but once you had finally felt whole, you could never live as half again.

Sometimes these thoughts terrified him. What would become of him if he ever lost Arthur? He wondered if something had happened to cause Arthur to be so wary of love; _Had Arthur loved and lost?_ He didn’t think so— although sometimes he would catch Arthur, when he didn’t know Eight was looking, with a far off look.  He wondered now if it was because Arthur longed for someone.

“Alright, well… I’ll just be out—“ Arthur moved to get up.

“Wait!” Eight said, his hand automatically snapping out to catch Arthur’s arm.

Arthur stopped in his movement and sat back down. Eight felt silly, he had nothing to say to Arthur, he just hadn’t been ready for Arthur to leave just yet. He paused for a minute, his mind warring to come to a decision. He had just been through near death experience, he had an excuse to feel vulnerable…

“Arthur…” Eight trailed off. “Would you stay? Just for a bit…” He picked at a stray thread sticking out of the sheets, afraid to look at Arthur’s face, to see what kind of expression sat there.

“Sure” he answered, moving to lift the comforter and slip underneath as Eight slid over to make room.

Eight laid back down as Arthur tucked up behind him, an arm reaching over to pull him close. He closed his eyes, relaxing into Arthur’s warmth. He tried to clear his mind of everything that happened, calm the whirlwind of emotions still tearing through him and just breathe. And if he did fantasize a bit, about Arthur’s muscled chest pressed against his back, his strong arm wrapped around him tight, his cock pressed up against Eight’s backside, then Arthur didn’t need to know.


End file.
